Day 65

On the road

Another hot dusty morning in the New Mexico desert

We were heading to Dallas at first, but when a group of survivors coming the other way reported that it had been overrun with angels and walkers alike, we changed course and headed north.

By we, I mean my aunt and I. My name is Danny. I turned 10 last month. April and I have been on the road since she found me, holed up in the bathroom.

The walkers came for our family one night when I was sleeping. I had gotten up to go to the bathroom late one night when I heard the screams. I don't remember much of that night. I flipped the lock on the door and turned off the light, cowering in the bathtub with the shower curtain drawn. I don't know how long I stayed there [the bathroom has no windows]. But after a while the screams stopped and the moans went away. I slept for a long time.

When I woke up, it was to a frantic knock on the door. "Danny!"

"Aunt April?"

"Oh, thank God you're in there. Let me in!"

I unlocked the door and she swept me into her arms, sobbing. I thought I'd cried out all my tears beforehand, but seeing her, I don't know - it just brought them right back.

April is the youngest of all the family, besides me. I think maybe she's twelve, fifteen years older than me? Not much. My mom is her adopted sister. April lived in Los Angeles with her husband. She says that when the walkers came, it was bad. The two of them holed up in their little studio apartment for days, living off what they had in their cupboards. But then the angels came.

Walkers are pretty bad right there. No one knows if they're really zombies in the true sense of the word. They seem to have some recollection of their former lives - they still recognize human faces and can tell the living from the dead. They don't bother other dead people; it's just the living they're hungry for. But the angels - they're something else. Quantum-locked, is what April calls them. Statues until you look away. But once they touch you, they take you, and their victims are never seen again. I can't decide which is worse - having your family come back as undead cannibals, or not coming back at all.

April's husband, Wayne, had no warning at all. An angel touched him, its stone face contorted into a terrible howl. And he was gone, just like that. April caught sight of it fortunately, and it was frozen in place. They stared each other down for a while. Then, slowly, when it looked like it wasn't going to move, April groped for the car keys. They were close by, on the coffee table. Then she backed away, and when she got to the door, swung it shut and bolted it. The angel beat against the door frantically, and April scrambled down the stairs and out the door to the truck.

At first, she wasn't sure what to do next. Angels littered the streets, hands covering their faces. But a glance back in the rear view mirror showed them looking right back at her, watching her drive away. Walkers, drawn to the noise of the truck, left half-eaten bodies where they lay in the street and lumbered after her truck hungrily. April stepped on the gas.

Before she knew it, my aunt was out of the county, driving down the interstate, the city's now-smoking hulk behind her. After she was safely out of the city, she pulled over and vomited into a ditch. Then she sat back in the driver's seat and thought.

I'm honored that our ranch in Montana was the first place she stopped. That I was the first person she thought of. When the walkers claimed my parents, there wasn't enough left of them to turn. But April cut off the heads just to make sure. After she fished me from the bathroom, she and I went through the house and gathered supplies. Where are we going, I asked. Anywhere besides here, she answered. As she bent over to stack a box into the truck, I saw the gun sticking out of its holster, underneath her shirt.

I think that was the moment I stopped being a kid. When I realized that my aunt, who was a pacifist and a vegetarian, who I'd never seen hurt another human being, started carrying a weapon.

"What are you thinking about?" my aunt asks from the driver's seat. The gun sits wedged in the cup holder, between a half-eaten bag of Doritos and two bottles of warm Pepsi, courtesy of an abandoned gas station about fifteen miles back.

"I was thinking that I need to find a gun," I answer.

My aunt is silent for a second. I know it scares her, the idea of a ten-year-old with a gun. But I also know that she and I depend on one another. We're all each other has left. And being able to defend myself would make it easier on her.

"I've always wanted to see Roswell," she finally replies. She does this sometimes; answer an uncomfortable statement with a completely different one, as if what you asked her was not what you asked her in the first place. It's a deflection strategy, and one that I find really, really annoying.

"April." I call her by her first name, an adjustment that I've made at her request ["Aunt is what you call my mother"].

"Yeah, sorry." She chews her lip. "Truth be told, I've been thinking you're about ready for one as well." She takes one hand off the steering wheel and rests it lightly on her gun. "But this is not a toy."

"I know."

"And you're not allowed to use a gun until I train you."

"Ok."

"What do you know about guns?"

"Not much."

"This is a Ruger LCR, .38 special. It means that it's lightweight and got a powerful kick. It also has no safety - it's like a camera, just point and shoot. Most revolvers are like that, you'll come to find out. That also means they're more dangerous. It holds only five rounds, that's what you sacrifice for size. Revolvers are a bitch to reload also, so if you need to use it, you make those five rounds count."

"And you always save one for yourself."

She pauses. "That's right."

It's one our unspoken rules, things that the two of us have picked up from other travelers and from being on the road. Never go more than ten feet from one another. Save water. Don't fall asleep on watch.

"So when am I gonna learn to shoot?"

"Well..." my aunt taps the steering wheel thoughtfully. "We need to find you one first, don't we? It's too bad there's not a sporting goods store around here somewhere."

"We could try the phone again," I offer. When she nods, I fish the Smartphone out of the glove compartment and turn it on. The phone itself doesn't work, but it has a GPS on it and that sometimes gets spotty reception.

As it comes online, I notice a flickering before it goes back to zero bars.

"Hey stop, we got a signal back there!"

My aunt slams on the brakes and puts the truck into reverse. I stare at the screen intently, waiting for the blip to come back.

"Okay, here." She puts the truck into park and kills the engine. Slowly, the fluttering signal on the phone becomes solid. One bar.

Together, we breathe a sigh of relief. "Check Facebook as soon as you're done," she whispers, as if talking too loud would kill the reception.

It might sound like a trivial request, but it's really not. If any of our family has had online access, hopefully they'll post it on there.

I bring up Google, which has an emergency broadcast message in bold red lettering on the page:

THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES HAS DECLARED A NATIONWIDE STATE OF EMERGENCY.

PLEASE STAY IN YOUR HOMES. DO NOT COME INTO CONTACT WITH ANYONE KNOWN TO CARRY THIS DISEASE. AID STATIONS ARE BEING PREPARED AT MAJOR CHECKPOINTS ALONG MOST MAJOR HIGHWAYS. PLEASE REMAIN CALM AND AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.

I type "sporting goods stores" into the search engine. "Looks like there's an REI in downtown Albuquerque."

"No way are we going into that hornet's nest," she replies. "What else?"

"Looks like there's a Gander Mountain outside of Amarillo."

"That's quite a ways from here though."

"We got anywhere else to be?"

"Let's see if we can find something a bit closer."

I search again. "Hmmm...there's a gun and tackle shop in Los Ranchos."

"That'll do. Now check Facebook."

I pull it up and type in my log on information. My inbox is flooded with messages, and the newsfeed is full of status after status. People looking for family, updates, address changes...

Suddenly the battery starts winking. "Almost out of juice!"

"Write something, quick!" she hisses.

I type in the status window:

"Mom/Dad/Wayne gone, but Apri ok. In NM, driving N. Bat dying, low sig, will check again when able. Love u all."

I hit send, and get a confirmation just before the battery goes dead. My aunt breathes a sigh of relief.

"Let's make sure to hunt down a car charger and see if we can juice it up again," she says.

I grab a pen and write on my arm a list: 1) Gun 2) Car Charger. On second thought, I add 3) Sunglasses. At my aunt's wry look, I protest, "Well, if I'm gonna be carrying, I at least gotta look the part." She just rolls her eyes and smiles.